Household

by Stevenson, Florence

  It was not until after sunrise that they could make their way back to the stables. “Take a couple hours sleep,” Richard advised his pale and shaken groom. “Then gather men you trust and join me here at nine.” He added tersely, “And I charge you, bring axes, crowbars and sledge hammers.”

  ❖

  Erlina Bell looked better by dusk than by daylight was the thought that entered Richard’s mind as he faced her. The rough homespun gown she wore hid the luscious curves of her body, and her hair, piled untidily on the top of her head, resembled a rat’s nest. She stared at him and at the six grim men who stood a few paces behind him. Her dark eyes were wide, and surprise was the only readable emotion reflected in their obsidian depths. Time, Richard realized, had been less kind to her than he had imagined. There were deep lines on either side of her mouth. More seamed her forehead. There were flecks of grey in her hair. Yet, surprisingly enough, she still exuded a certain sensuous appeal, which he wished he had not noticed.

  Tilting her head to one side, she said, “It’s been a long set of years since we’ve met, my Lord. Have you missed me and come to pass the time of day with me? If that’s the way the matter stands, I must needs bid you welcome.”

  There was audacity and a challenge in her speech. Richard, with the events of the night large in his mind, longed to put her over his knee. Unfortunately such a gesture might not have resulted in the punishment she richly deserved. He said coldly, “I think you must know why I have come.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “We made a bargain, you and I. My need has not grown less with the years. This house, I recall, was given me until I chose to leave. I do not so choose.”

  “The choice is no longer yours, Mistress,” Richard stated. “I said you might...”

  “You swore,” she interrupted.

  “I swore you might remain here, but I did not give you leave to abuse your tenancy. Meg MacAlpin was found naked, ravished and raving in the fields this morning. They fear for her sanity.”

  “If Meg MacAlpin’s the blacksmith’s child, her sanity is a precarious thing at best. But why should you come to me with these tales?”

  “Who better?” Richard snapped. “I saw the whole of your... ceremony last night.”

  “You... watched?” she whispered accusingly.

  Richard knew basilisks did not exist, but if they had, their fabled stare might have been very similar to the one he was currently receiving from his soon-to-be-late tenant. He said calmly, “I watched, and so I think it’ll not surprise you when I tell you, I want you out of this place and quickly.”

  Her hands curled into fists. “Need I remind you...” she began.

  “You need remind me of nothing.” He flung the words back at her. “I renounce that oath and warn you that if you’re not off this land within the hour, I’ll have you thrown off. My men are aching to do it.”

  “I warn you not to insist upon this desecration,” she cried. “Else my curse shall follow you...”

  “Desecration? One desecrates a church or a temple or a shrine, but not such a place as this. As for your curses,” Richard’s smile combined insolence with mockery, “curse away, my dear Erlina. I’ll add them to my collection. Now go and be quick about it. My men are as anxious as myself to see the last of you!”

  The fire faded from her eyes. She sagged against her door which was, Richard noted, battered and hanging by one hinge. The whole house was, as he remembered, a crumbling wreck, barely livable. Erlina Bell’s look, he also noted, was actually conciliating, and he guessed he had really frightened her. Fool, he thought contemptuously. She and Dashwood were both fools, substituting one so-called eminence for another in their futile quest for earthly power.

  “Please...” Erlina Bell whispered. “I will go, but I have no place as yet. I pray you let me remain until I find another.”

  “You may remain as long as it takes you to gather such belongings as you can carry, Mistress. I give you an hour, then my men will escort you to my gates. No doubt, you’ll find some other fool to take you in.”

  Her assumed humility dropped with amazing swiftness. Her eyes actually flamed. “I warn you, Richard Veringer,” she cried hoarsely. “I warn you that...”

  His patience fled. “Too many warnings, Mistress, and too little action. I think we must needs supply that.” He gestured to the men behind him. “Have at the house, and I charge you, do not leave one stone of it standing.”

  She shrieked then, a long wail, as they rushed forward, thrusting her aside, their hammers and crowbars poised. “No, damn you, damn you, double-damn you a hundred times. My elixir... my glass, my elixir... my potions!” she howled.

  “Poisons, you mean. Noxious poisons, drugs to dull the senses, let them shatter and sink into the earth!” Richard exclaimed.

  She screamed again and ran in amongst the men only to be thrown violently back by David. She fell in a heap and struggled to her feet. The sound of their tools was loud against the crumbling stones. She ran forward a second time, striving to grasp a tall beaker which even as she touched it was knocked from her hand, shattering into a thousand pieces as it hit the stones. A scarlet liquid soaked into the earth, and she howled in agony. Then she reached down and retrieved something else, clutching it protectively against her bosom and dashing out. The sun’s gleam was caught in the object, and Richard, blinking against its brightness, saw that it was a witching ball. “I pray you’ll tell me my fortune, Mistress Bell,” he mocked. “What do you espy in your crystal?”

  She regarded him out of reddened eyes. In a low voice she said, “I see a long, long road, Richard Veringer. As you have broken your oath and destroyed my home and more—more than you know—so will your home be destroyed and so will those you love be loathed and feared as they go forth upon the byways of this world and have no resting place until they find some plot of ground which will receive them. But the searching will be arduous and the way fearful. That will be the fate of the Veringer household—and that is my curse upon you, Richard Veringer. I am not finished with you!” Behind him, the ancient walls of the cottage crashed down upon each other, leaving only a heap of stones. Richard stared at Erlina Bell with grim amusement. “I might tell you, Mistress, that I do not believe in curses or omens, gods or devils or any of the fantasies concocted by charlatans such as yourself to confound mens’ minds.”

  She stared at the heap of stones, blinking against the dust that arose from them. “Do you not believe, my Lord? One wonders what you’ll be saying in seven years?”

  “I do not anticipate a change in opinions I have held for the whole of my lifetime,” he retorted coldly. Reaching into an inner pocket, he brought out some coins and handed them to her. “Let these keep you until you find another roof.” She took the coins and, spitting on them, flung them at his feet. “There are those who’ll give me shelter, right enough. I tax you, sir, remember me when seven years have come and gone!”

  He laughed into her furious face. “I doubt I’ll be able to remember you in seven days, Mistress Bell.” He turned to David. “Escort this woman across the bridge that spans the moat.” With a wave of his hand, he mounted his horse and rode home in high good humor.

  Two

  Colin was lost and had no notion how he had become lost save that while riding toward the Hold, he had been thinking about Kathleen or, rather, Juliet. Her birthday present lay in his knapsack, the prettiest little ivory fan he could find. It was not too small because the spokes must be wide enough to accomodate the names of the men who would wish to dance with her at her forthcoming ball. He supposed he should have waited to present the gift. His sister would not be 18 until mid-November, but at her earnest request, the ball would be given within the week.

  He agreed with her. November in Northumberland was no time for a birthday ball, not with the roads piled high with snow and the drawbridge icy over the frozen moat.

  His thoughts shifted to Kathleen, who had met Sir John Driscoll, the man she later married at her birthday ball, given three yea
rs ago when she turned 18. He wondered if Juliet would find the man she would eventually marry on this occasion. He doubted it. According to her letters, she had been in and out of love no less than four times in six months! Kathleen’s temperament was entirely different. Colin suspected she did not approve of Juliet’s flighty ways. She would never admit to such a thing, though. Family loyalty was strong in them all. He smiled fondly. Kathleen would soon be brought to bed of her first child, and due to the fact that Sir John had been sent to Madras three months earlier, his sister would be having her baby at the Hold. He was glad of that and suspected that Kathleen was, too. She had not wanted to leave the castle—none of them did. His smile vanished. He would have to leave it eventually since Tony stood to inherit. He frowned, sighed, and since it did no good to ponder upon the inevitable, he fixed his mind on his present dilemma. How he could have lost his way—and so close to home?

  The forest path onto which Miranda, his mare, had unaccountably wandered while his attention had been diverted was narrow. The trees were so dense they blotted out the waning light. He would have difficulty finding the road again and though he could be no more than a league from the Hold, he would probably have to hole up in another tavern for the night. There would be only a small sliver of a moon to light the sky and, in his last letter, his father warned that there had been a veritable plague of highwaymen upon the roads of late.

  Colin frowned, cursing his absent-mindedness. He had been looking forward to spending this night beneath the castle roof. In addition to the pleasure of seeing his family again, he was weary of putting up at indifferent hostelries and like as not sharing a bed with some flea-ridden stranger. He was also sick of the food, either overcooked or raw. There seemed to be no happy medium. As for the wine, it was all corked, or so it had appeared to him.

  Miranda suddenly neighed and reared, nearly unseating Colin. Startled, he reined her in and looked about to see what might have frightened the animal. Not surprisingly, he could see nothing. It was even darker now, and he must concentrate on trying to find a way out of woods that seemed to be growing more impenetrable with every step his mare took. Wheeling her around, Colin started back the way he had come. Surely the path must branch off and they would find themselves on the highway.

  He was considerably relieved when at last they emerged upon a broader road. Still it was one he did not immediately recognize. Fortunately there was a light flickering in a window less than half a mile distant. Seeing a painted signboard swinging in the evening breeze, Colin realized he had found his inn. He patted Miranda’s flank gently and a short time later entered The Green Dragon, an inn which looked very old, a fact substantiated by the host.

  Identifying himself as Mr. Horatio Chubb, he welcomed Colin with a large smile, exposing teeth almost as green as the faded dragon on the sign. He was a small, stout man with a tic in one eye which made it appear as if he were always winking. As he led Colin into the common room, he said, “This ’ere place were built afore an ’Anover set ’isself on the throne. It were ’ere afore the Stuart kings, too. It were built when Whitby Abbey were filled wi’ monks.” Having delivered himself of this gratuitous information the host indicated a table adjacent to a small fire burning in a great hearth.

  Colin, sitting down in an old wooden chair, found himself the sole occupant of a musty chamber with a low, beamed ceiling and smoke-begrimed walls. The air was heavy with the odors of mold, greasy food and stale beer, none of which was likely to pique his appetite. Nor was he much taken with the antiquarian-minded innkeeper. Aside from the tic, which he could not help, he was grimy and unshaven, and his apron carried stains on top of stains. Rubbing his hands on this limp garment, Mr. Chubb regarded Colin almost affectionately.

  “Not many come ’ere today ’n those that did left afore sunset. Ye’ll ’ave a chamber to yerself tonight.”

  “That is gratifying,” Colin lied. He cast a glance toward the grease-befogged window and concealed a sigh. The small panes were dark. Any hope of inquiring the path to the main highway was flouted. If he left the inn, he would be in danger of becoming lost all over again. Yet he could not like Chubb, and furthermore he did not trust him. The man put him in mind of all the traveler’s tales he had heard—most of them centering around dark, lonely, deserted inns and unprepossessing landlords with an eye to robbery or murder or both. That host and inn met at least two of these qualifications was undeniable. Colin was not ready to acquit him of the third and fourth. Fortunately, there was a pistol in his greatcoat pocket, and though he was passing weary, if there was not a stout chair or a nightstand to place against the door, he was prepared to remain wakeful through the night.

  “Would ye be ’avin’ wine or ale, sor?” inquired the host.

  “Ale will do, thanks,” Colin said.

  “I’ll be fetchin’ it, sor. We be short o’ ’elp’n...” Mr. Chubb paused at a loud knock on the outer door. His small eyes sparkled. “Maybe ye brought me luck,” he said. “There be another.”

  He had not added victim but Colin was ready to supply the missing definition as the host hurried off to answer the door. Hearing his unctuous, “Good evenin’, sor,” Colin envisioned him bowing and rubbing his hands, the actions he had used when he ushered him into the room. He had difficulty smothering a laugh as Mr. Chubb, bowing even more deeply, brought in a tall, slender young man. Leading him to an adjacent table, he rubbed his hands while saying, “Sit ’ere, sor. I’m just after ’elpin’ this ’ere guest’n wot’ll you ’ave to drink. Ale or wine?”

  “Wine, my good man, if there’s any fit for my palate,” the newcomer drawled wearily.

  “Wine it is, sor.” Mr. Chubb hurried off.

  The young man loosed a long sigh and fixing a lackluster eye on Colin, he said wearily, “Are we the only victims then?”

  Colin started, then laughed. “I vow you must have peered into my mind. Twas the same thought that occurred to me.”

  “Alas, I wish I were so perspicacious.” The stranger smiled. “Think how such an ability would serve one at the gaming tables.”

  Colin regarded him interestedly, noting that he was very well dressed. His greatcoat was of fine cloth and stylish. Only two capes graced his shoulders rather than the several attached to Colin’s older coat. The newcomer’s boots were polished to a high shine, and his hair, dark and wavy, was tied with a black ribbon. Though he must have just dismounted, not a lock of it was out of place. He had set a round hat on the table before him rather than the cocked version Colin still wore. In fact, his style and his neatness were enviable, and having seen several equally fashionable young men frequenting the gambling clubs in London, Colin wondered if he might not be a professional gamester.

  “Are you a gamester, sir?” he asked.

  “I have been, but luck’s not favored me of late.”

  “I’m sorry,” Colin said politely.

  “I do not repine.” The other shrugged. “Luck has a way of turning. Down one day, up the next. And you, do you gamble?”

  Colin shook his head. “No, I am at Oxford.”

  “Oh, indeed. But that should not keep you from the tables if you’ve a hankering for them.”

  “I haven’t.” Colin shrugged. “Unlike you, I’ve never been particularly lucky at either cards or dice, and so I don’t play.”

  “You’re not one to take chances. I can understand that and I admire it, too. I wish it might have been so with me. Though,” he lowered his voice, “’twas quite a chance to take coming to this unsavory hostel.”

  Colin leaned forward. “Do you know anything about it?” he whispered.

  “Does one have to know anything? One needs only to employ eyes and nose.”

  “True.” Colin grimaced. “But I’d no choice. I was lost and my father told me that the roads are reputed to be dangerous, else I should have pressed on. I had every intention of reaching the Hold tonight, save that I took a wrong turning, having made the error of thinking while riding.”

  “That is an
error... particularly when it brought you here. Do you live far from this place?”

  “I do not think it can be too far.” Colin paused as Chubb came back bearing a tray on which was a foaming mug of ale and a glass of wine.

  “’Ere ye be, gentlemen, the best o’ my cellar.” Setting down the glasses, he grinned and quitted the room.

  “Well,” Colin said, regarding the other man ruefully, “your health, sir.”

  “And your’s.” The stranger lifted his drink and taking a sip suddenly hurled the glass across the room. “Faugh, damme me if I’ve ever tasted such!” He wiped a hand across his mouth.

  Colin set down his mug. “Was it so bad?”

  “Vile, like all else in this miserable inn. If I had any place to go, I’d not stay here another minute.”

  “I fear we’ve no choice,” Colin told him ruefully. “’Tis very dark out.”

  “I see as well by dark as by daylight,” his companion snapped. “You say that you do not live far from here?”

  “Not far, but the road... I think it’s through the forest.”

  “I have a nose for direction. If I could bring you to your home, might I have accomodation for the night?”

  “If you could, you’d be more than welcome,” Colin said. “But I doubt...”

  “Do not doubt.” The stranger rose. “Be assured that if you give me your location, I’ll find it.” Lowering his voice to a half-whisper, he added, “I’d not drink any more of that ale. Tis my opinion both wine and ale are drugged.”

  “Do you think so?” Colin demanded, surprised and alarmed at having his own fears corroborated.

  “I do, else why are we the only travelers to be honored with mine host’s dubious hospitality?”

  “That did occur to me,” Colin admitted. “But are you sure you could find the way?”

  “As I have told you, my night vision’s quite remarkable and has served me well in the past.”

  “If you really believe...”